


Death Metal, Power Metal

by IncurablePeppermint



Category: Crypt of the NecroDancer
Genre: Backstory, Dark Past, Fire, Gen, I mean major character death but not in particular detail + it's NECROdancer, death cw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurablePeppermint/pseuds/IncurablePeppermint
Summary: A backstory for Death Metal, imagining him as a gravedigger! This puts him just at the turning point before his transformation
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Death Metal, Power Metal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ysavvryl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysavvryl/gifts).



> I ended up defaulting and posting this as a treat because I became ill when it was time to hit the deadline! So sorry about the issues there OTL

The gravedigger plants his shovel deep down in the ground, long past his usual clearance. The dirt here resists his efforts much more than he’s used to. It's full of rocks and far spread roots. There's plenty beyond the typical grass to slice through. He puts his foot down on the shovel's head and forces it deeper still, using the sharpened edge to cut apart a hardened clump of soil.

Typically, when he's done digging, he can simply reach up, leverage his elbows, and heave himself out of the fresh grave. He’s always been a tall man, a strong man, and he’s never needed anything but a little time to prepare a burial. Recently, unfortunately, the empire that has been constantly threatening his pleasant southern village has made good on their word. And so he digs deeper, even though he already can't reach the ground with even the tips of his fingers. Even though he stands uncomfortably in the deep, wide grave. 

This time there will not be a headstone. There will not be a box made of oak or stone. There won't be a melancholy funeral, where everyone celebrates what time they had with the dearly departed. All there will be are the corpses. Soil and death, finality. The gravedigger wipes the sweat from his brow and leaves a reddish brown streak of mud in its place. He is more than used to burying those he knows. The child he once saw running while clutching a bundle of leaves. The kind older woman who, when she spotted him on her weekly graveyard visit, would insist on giving him one of the flowers she brought for her husband. His sister who always thought digging graves was too morbid a job for her little brother.

But this is different. It's improper, to begin with. There's no headstone big enough to carve in the names of all the corpses the Empire wants dumped. Not a single one of his fallen fellow townsfolk will have a coffin or even the respect of a single person grave. If he could, he would bury each and every one of them lost to the invasion with his own coin. Commission fine boxes, elaborate headstones. Make nice, decent resting places. But he’s only one man, and doesn’t earn any more gold than it takes to stay alive. 

He turns his shovel to the root covered wall of the grave and forces it in. The Empire may continue to occupy his sad, broken Southern village for years to come. He wants the opportunity to give each and every body a grave, at the very least, and he has a plan to do so without arousing suspicion. Well, to be honest, he’s not sure how suspicious it will be. He just knows that he absolutely has to do it.

His plan takes place in a long, straight tunnel. If his knows where he's going, and he’s sure he does, it will lead right up to his cellar. And then, grave by grave, he can right this wrong. Everyone will be buried much deeper than usual, yes, but side by side instead of in a big, rotting pile. It's the least he can do. It's all he can think about. Women, children, parents, craftsmen. All doing their part while alive only to be shamed in death. It’s unthinkable to him. 

He breaks through to an open area and manages a grin despite the grim situation. He found it, the tunnel where he's already been toiling away, trying to ensure a proper connect. He's a bit off to one side of it, but it'll do. He painstakingly starts hand-packing dirt back at the entrance. The key to his plan is that the Empire doesn't know about it. Their general would string him up to show everyone what happens when they don't kiss the boot stepping on their face. 

"Where did he get off to this time?"

"The digger? The man probably found some way home once the job was finished."

"He wasn't  _ finished _ . We didn't tell him he was  _ finished. _ And how did he get out of there, huh?"

He takes a seat against the wall of the tunnel after placing one last clump of dirt on the 'door.' Wasn’t finished? He dug everything out according to their demands. And then he dug more still. He knows they’re just bloviating. He knows what comes next. The drop. And even if he desperately doesn't want to hear it as body after disrespected body is tossed unceremoniously into a mass grave, he wants to be there for his people. 

He ignores their chatter for some time, but tunes back in when he hears heavy wagon wheels crunching grass above him. "He was a strong lad. Could be a good soldier if you spent a little time convincing him." The gravedigger spits on the ground beside him.

"Fine, fine. I'll save my complaints. Unload the wagons, men!"

The first few towns persons hit the dirt with a gut wrenching crunch and splatter. Then they hit each other with dull, wet thuds that feel neverending. They keep coming and he feels his gut twist into a horrible labyrinth knot. Then, unexpectedly, comes the smell, like a broken lantern. The scent permeates the dirt and forces its way into his nostrils. He covers up his nose and mouth with his shirt to keep from coughing and presses himself up against the packed doorway, desperately listening for some sign that he is wrong. Almost certain that he’s right. But it’s unbelievable, surely even the Empire-men wouldn’t do _ that _ .

The heat comes before the smell. It forces him back away from the thin wall and he stumbles over a root onto the ground. It's full force and fast. Lantern oil, burnt meat, charcoal, and a distinct, disgusting odor he's only encountered when burying those trapped by house fires. He pulls a cloth from his pocket and ties it around his mouth and nose.

The gravedigger forces his fingers into the dirt and tries to claw his way up to his feet, nauseous from the heat, smell, and situation. A cremation could be proper. Could be respectful. This is different. This is awful. He doesn’t even manage to get all the way up on his knees before the ground starts to give under him. Some reaction from the heat? The earth deciding to swallow up the terror above, to hide it from those who need not know about it? He doesn’t have time to figure it out. A muffled, low scream escapes him despite his best efforts to stay quiet as the dirt under him collapses and takes him further down.

What wakes the gravedigger up is a few light, cloying notes plucked away at some string instrument. The world around him pulses in time with his headache. He reaches for his shovel out of habit as he stands. The room he finds himself in is dimly lit. The ground beneath his feet is made of small, gray bricks. At one end of the room he sees a door, open. And standing there the vague shape of a man. “Hello?” he asks, before putting a hand to his throat. His voice comes out lower, more gravely than before. 

The man at the door takes a step forward. No, he doesn't  _ step _ . He  _ floats _ . The gravedigger takes up a defensive stance with his shovel. He isn't one for fighting, but deep in his guts he knows there is something malevolent about the silhouette approaching. 

"Now, now. You should be more gracious. I'm the only reason you're  _ alive _ ." 

"I don't know what you mean. I just fell."

"Oh, you certainly fell. A fatal distance, I'd wager." The man raises an arm and a lute flies in front of him, surrounded by a sickly pink aura. The strings pluck themselves harshly but rhythmically nonetheless. A blast of pink shoots out at him and he blocks it with his shovel, only for the shovel to split off into a shield and scythe. He drops them both in surprise.

"Where is this? I have to get back to my-"

"Gravedigging, yes. Don't worry yourself, I have  _ plenty _ of dead for you to attend to."

He tries to reach for his dropped scythe, but finds himself only able to move on beat with the lute. Plenty of dead? Did  _ his _ dead crash through alongside him? "What do you want," he pleads. 

"I want  _ you _ as a champion. Very few I happen upon have the  _ potential _ for anything beyond a skeleton, a slime at best." He floats forward just enough that the gravedigger can look him over. The man in front of him is blue, greyed, and thinned out. He barely recognizes him from the old tales.

"You're... The bard?"

"I'm beyond that quaint title. I'm Octavian, the Necrodancer. And you belong to me now."

Octavian points a finger down at the gravedigger, who dodges the spot instinctively on the next beat. He starts to understand the ‘rules’ about moving with the music. He picks up the scythe that used to be his shovel. The sound of bats fills the room and he backs up, managing to slash one down before ending up surrounded. They slam into him, beat after beat, and form into a thick cloak that weighs him down.

He struggles to remove it. Another bat slams itself into his discarded shield before flying it over to him, now part of the metal. He lets out a frustrated scream but it goes deep and painful in his throat, beyond his control. 

"Don't fight against it, now. This is your  _ power _ ."

He glares over at the Necrodancer. He sees in him everything that went wrong. The empire. The pit. The burning. He feels it in his stomach and involuntarily releases it towards the bard in a blast of fire. 

And he misses. 

Octavian laughs heartily, deep in his belly. "You'll be perfect, it's so easy to make you see red." Another blast from the lute, with a discordant slam of its strings. This time the gravedigger is too tired, too weighed down to dodge. 

It strikes true and the change happens in a matter of moments. He is enlarged, strengthened. His cloak and weapons finish taking form, a microphone adding itself to the tip of his scythe's handle. And finally, a mask forces It's way down from the hood over his face. He sees everything in pinks, reds, scarlets.

And over the music, over the bat screeches, he hears them talking above the mass grave. On repeat his head replays them. Giving him the orders. Suggesting he would ever join them. Disrespecting the dead.  _ His _ dead. And when someone opens up the door, he doesn’t see the difference between the intruder and the empire.


End file.
